Page 113 of The Heir

“I won’t be removed from shit.” I spat back.

The bitch didn’t even get one out, she cleared her throat, held up a finger, and Mackie tackled my ass!

“Goddamn it!” I started throwing elbows and jabs for all I was worth.

I was no match for Mackie. He was prison built and meaner than a fuckin’ snake. He clapped his hand over my mouth like he used to when we were kids and shit got ugly. Then he hauled my ass inside.

Chapter Forty-Two

Blaze

My throat had a lump in it, and my chest ached with grief that I could already feel, even if I couldn’t pinpoint where the loss was going to come from.

The Valentino Mafia.

The name had haunted me my whole life. The very words sent my mother into a nervous breakdown, and now I knew why. There were thirty men lining a row of black sedans along the cemetery. A long limo sat behind the first two, and a man in a sharp suit stood outside, holding the door open in wait.

Joplin extended her arm, gesturing toward the interior and Donnie climbed in first. May followed, and I stood glaring at her for a moment.

“I can’t fucking believe you,” I whispered.

“You’ll learn to. Get in.” She cocked her head, urging me onward.

I sighed and slid into the vehicle. There was a fucking body in my back yard, I had an ankle monitor on. There was no good outcome.

I knew I was fucked, but I hadn’t been worried about the situation the way I should have been. I’d clung to a false sense of security when I saw Joplin. The man sitting across from me stripped all of that away with a simple once over. His darkgaze started at my shoes and climbed, his lip curling more prominently with every inch he took in, shifting the toothpick that dangled across his lower lip.

His eyes were the coldest shade of blue I’d ever seen, and they pierced my awareness in a way that instantly made me feel like prey. Sitting in such close proximity with those pale daggers anchored to me was unsettling to say the least.

“The husband of the one who just murdered my niece.” He said it so calmly and quietly, that I questioned whether I’d imagined the Italian accent splitting the air.

He removed all doubt when his gaze slid to Mayhem, and he blinked once. “The son of the woman who killed my brother.”

“A shame he didn’t die slower,” May returned, in the same conversational tone.

My stomach flopped, and I dry heaved. When I composed myself, the mobster was staring at me like I was a lesser species again.

He tsked and his attention slid to Donnie. He gave him the same slow once over that he had me. This time, his lips slowly hinted toward a smile, and his hand slid to the thigh of his expensive-looking navy slacks.

“Where do you find friends like this?”

Donnie’s lips parted, and the way his chest expanded, I thought he was about to quip back at him like May did and sign all our death warrants, but he just gave an apologetic shake of his head and cleared his throat.

The man made a pleased sound and sat back, drawing one ankle up to rest on a knee. It gave us all a peek at his crisp white dress socks and a tiny gold chain.

“Who are you again?” He focused on Donnie once more.

Donnie looked toward Joplin, when she offered no help, he spoke up, “I don’t think I caught your name, either.”

The mobster leaned forward only to hold out a hand that bid patience, “I’ve been telling them for years, they need a herald to go in advance of my presence and give my formal introductions, but they tell me I’m not important enough for such displays.”

He made a dismissive, though wet, clicking sound with his mouth and sat back like it was the biggest load of bullshit he’d heard in his life.

Joplin sat up and waved her arms toward the man like she was suddenly auditioning for Wheel of Fortune, “Donovan, this is Damien Valentino. Damien, this is Donovan Miller.”

Donnie paled, he shoved his hand through hair in a slow, stressful-looking stroke and brought it back to do it again. Rather than run the course of that blond mess a second time, he parked his elbow on the window’s ledge and turned his face into the palm of his hand. His jaw tensed and I could tell he was struggling.

“Donovan,” Damien mused, sampling his name. “Not Lug Nut or Parasite? How did you gain enough favor to get a respectable name?”

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